not that,’ he muttered, and then, as if a pain had suddenly made itself unbearable, he nodded, raking back his hair with an impatient hand. ‘Why not?’ he agreed shortly. ‘How do we get there?’
Helen almost lost her nerve, but she managed to say quite coherently: ‘My car—is parked on that lot near the river. We can go in that.’
‘Where is the flat?’
‘Gainsborough Crescent.’
‘Gainsborough Crescent.’ She could see him trying to place the vaguely familiar name. ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘I know it. But my car—or rather my stepmother’s—is nearer. We can buy what we need on the way there.’
‘All right.’ Helen had no objections. No one in Gainsborough Crescent would recognise Mrs Fox’s yellow Volkswagen, whereas her blue Mini might incite attention.
Morgan bought some eggs and cheese and butter, and some rolls still warm from the oven. He also added a bottle of wine to the steadily increasing load in Helen’s basket, and then they made their way to where he had left the car.
‘You drive,’ he said, after unloading their possessions into the back, and with a puzzled shrug of acceptance, Helen climbed behind the wheel. Morgan got in beside her, supporting his head with evident relief against the padded rest, and she gave him an anxious look before starting the engine.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Mmm,’ he nodded. ‘Just a slight headache, that’s all. I’ve got something I can take for it when we get to the flat.’
Helen didn’t waste any more time. The Volkswagen was easy to handle, and she swung out of the parking area and into the stream of traffic with the expertise born of experience. She had been driving since she was seventeen, and even Barry had had to concede that she was good.
It only took a matter of five minutes or so to reach Gainsborough Crescent, and she parked the car at the kerb before reaching into the back for her basket.
Morgan’s hand closed on her arm, however, preventing her from reaching it. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said, thrusting open his door and getting out, and reluctantly she went ahead into the building.
Gainsborough Crescent was a terrace of tall Victorian houses, most of which had been converted into flats now. Families were no longer so large as to require half a dozen bedrooms, and the rooms on the attic floor were snapped up by students wanting an economical bed-sitter.
The flat Helen and Barry were to occupy was on the first floor. It was small—just a bedroom, a living room, a tiny kitchenette and a bathroom, but at least it was all their own. The furnishings were the prime drawback. Nearly all the furniture had done service for more years than Helen would have liked to have guessed, and she hoped it wouldn’t be too long before they could buy and furnish a house of their own.
Leading the way into the living room, she realised that this was the first time she had ever actually invited anyone there. Her mother had seen the flat, of course, but Barry’s parents were waiting until they returned from their honeymoon and they could have a proper flat-warming.
Morgan closed the door behind him, glancing about him appraisingly as Helen bent to light the gas fire. The room was chilly, but the fire created a warm glow, casting enveloping shadows over the worn patches on the hide-covered couch.
Morgan walked straight through to the kitchenette, and when she followed him she found him taking two tablets with a mouthful of water direct from the tap.
‘Hey,’ she exclaimed, ‘we have some glasses!’ But he shook his head and straightened, saying:
‘It’s okay, they’ve gone. Now—do you have a frying pan?’
They ate in the kitchenette, seated on stools beside the breakfast bar. Morgan had grated the cheese while Helen beat up the eggs, and then while she made light, fluffy omelettes, he opened the wine. His headache seemed to have disappeared as suddenly as it had come and she was relieved, aware that ridiculous as it might seem she had been concerned about him.
Although the wine was unchilled, it had never tasted so good and they drank the bottle between them. Helen felt quite reckless, drinking so much in the middle of the day, and she hoped that by evening the feeling of lightheadedness would have evaporated.
Morgan insisted on washing the dishes afterwards, and Helen commented on his efficiency. ‘A man can learn to do a lot of things if he has to,’ he replied, with a wry smile, and she knew he was referring to the break-up of his marriage.
‘I suppose—Andrea helps,’ she commented, picking up a tea-towel to polish their glasses. ‘I mean—she’s fifteen, isn’t she? Almost grown up.’
‘Almost,’ he agreed, a frown drawing his brows together. ‘Yes, she does what she can. But she was ill some time ago, and she’s never really properly recovered, I’m afraid.’
Helen stared at his profile, wondering if she dared ask what was wrong with her, and then chided herself for her inquisitiveness. It was nothing to do with her, after all, and yet everything about this man troubled and intrigued her, and it was impossible for her to remain unmoved by his statement.
‘Ill?’ she said now, concentrating on the glass. ‘How—ill?’
‘She contracted pneumonia,’ said Morgan flatly, and her murmur of dismay was barely stifled before he added: ‘You wouldn’t expect that in Africa, I suppose, would you? But in certain circumstances, it’s quite possible. It’s left her weak and—apathetic. What she needs now is care and encouragement, but God help me, I don’t have the time to give it to her.’
Helen finished drying the glass and set it down with exaggerated precision. Then, as he had finished washing the dishes and was drying his hands, she ventured: ‘Are—aren’t there any centres where she could go? You know—to be with young people of her own age?’
‘Not in Nrubi, no.’
‘There are in Engl—–’
‘I know that!’ He spoke harshly, and then, as if regretting his outburst, he muttered: ‘I’m sorry, but that’s one of the reasons why I came here. I thought, if I could persuade Susan to come back with me, to stay a few weeks—two, three months maybe—she might be able to help Andrea, give her back her confidence, show her that there are other people who care about her just as much as I do.’
‘And?’
The word came automatically from Helen’s lips, and Morgan looked at her as he rolled down the sleeves of his cream silk shirt. ‘No,’ he said dispassionately. ‘It wouldn’t work. I can’t take Susan back there, even if she wanted to go, which I doubt. She and Andrea would have nothing in common. I doubt if she’d even get close to her. Andrea’s too—sensitive. Susan would scare her, and besides, she’s far too much of a liability. I have enough responsibilities as it is.’
‘I see.’
‘The pity of it is, I know that if I could get her to come to England, let her get to know my father, she’d be all right when—–’
He broke off abruptly at that point and strode through to the living room, and after a moment’s hesitation Helen followed him. He was standing before the fire, staring down
